HD 'Maybes & What Ifs'
by tigersilver
Summary: Post-war. Harry returns Draco's wand. Draco, being very much a Slytherin bloke, feels if he's handed an opportunity like Potter, it'd be downright criminal not to take it with both hands.


Author: tigersilver  
>Title: 'Maybes &amp; What ifs?'<br>Pairing: H/D  
>Rating: PG-13<br>Word Count: 3,250  
>WarningsSummary: Post-Hogwarts, AU, yet another take the moment of wand return and a peek into Draco's opinion of his own hands.  
>For mahaliem* , for her birthday, belated; for lovely_slyth* , because she is purely wonderful; for mijeli* , because a gift of fluff is alway nice to have land on one's doorstep, unexpectedly.<p>

**HD 'Maybes & What Ifs?'**

"Here," Potter said, and held his hand out. "Take it, Malfoy."

Draco stared at his wand, and the hand that held it. Capable, square-tipped fingers, but still quite long, and attached under a light gold webbing of skin to a broad hand, subtle in its ridges and swells. Scarred on the reverse, with faint, white weals he could barely make out but had heard existed. Clean and well-kept, but the nails were ragged at the edges: nibbled, he imagined.

He wanted so much to kiss that hand; suck every finger into his mouth and lave it with his tongue, lick the palm with wide sweeps and then fancifully scribe his initials on it with the tip of his tongue and his saliva; ; bury his cheek in the warmth of that flattened cup of creased indents and briefly splintered life and heart lines. Close his eyes and savour the contact—feel safe again.

His hawthorn wand—stolen, claimed and held hostage for months now-for all that he wanted it, craved it something fierce and felt cast adrift without it, was immaterial. It was that hand.

He desired that hand far more than any old wand.

"Malfoy? Malfoy, come on, take it. Don't have all day, git."

The hand bobbing at Draco's chest level wavered and the wand slid oily-dark across the ridge and swells of calloused skin; Potter was impatient, Draco knew, and there had to be prior claims on his time. In a moment, he'd likely thrust Draco's wand at him and simply DisApparate and there'd be another chance gone, shot to Hades by indecision and circumstance.

Well, Draco only had so many 'maybes'; he couldn't afford to waste one more.

"I," he said and raised his own perspiring hand carefully and slowly, easing it out as he might do when gentling one of the more skittish Abraxan stallions...and extending it by tectonically painstaking inches. "I want," he whispered, and Potter tilted his chin and quirked his black brows, leaning his entire upper body almost imperceptibly closer, if only to hear Draco more clearly. The wand tip came to rest over Draco's heart, by sheer happenstance, and wasn't that stupidly ironic?

"For you to stay," Draco carried on croakily, forcing his confession past the huge lump that had risen to accumulate in his throat, "for a moment, and then, too, I want—"

He wrapped his hand over Potter's in a quick nabbing motion, or more like a shroud or a cloak, but as deftly as he would nip a snitch from under a Ravenclaw's nose, effectively trapping the wand between them. "You." And capturing Potter, which was his real goal. "To give me the chance to say 'thank you', for the Fiendfyre—and to—"

"You don't have to, Malfoy," Potter was already shaking his head. Shrugging, as if all that had gone before were as nothing and best forgotten. Except Draco had no intention of ever forgetting it: he needed something real, something genuine, to hold onto. "You saved me, too. You don't have to."

Draco cleared his throat and shifted his fingers, easing them in between Potter's long ones, relishing the feel of them. This was different indeed from white-knuckled punches, from terrified death grips on smoke-imbued robes and from frantic tugging and feral scratching at the lean, fit form he now knew Potter had kept hidden under those awful clothes all these years.

"Ahem. As I was saying, Potter, before you so rudely interrupted me, to let you know it was alright for not being my friend back then, on the Express, that first day, and to thank you, again, for not leaving me to bleed out Myrtle's lav until you knew Professor Snape had come—and for...for."

"Shut it, Malfoy," Potter ordered, again interrupting, and the sharpish point of Draco's wand jerked up involuntarily, poking past Draco's collarbone to jab viciously at his trachea, effectively cutting his reedy litany off by main force. "That's all—I'm sorry; I didn't know and you were bloody casting a Crucio, Malfoy—oh, shite, look, it's just that; I mean to say, let's forget all that rot—it's over, isn't it? So, so—take it! Go ahead, so I can Apparate the fuck out of here and get on with my life!"

"No," Draco replied flatly, and shook his head. "Let me finish. I must finish, Potter. And to ask you—" he soldiered on, standing tall and determined, excepting, of course, where he bent his fair head over their combining, shifting hands, watching closely the flex of his own hand and wrist and deliberately clutching his fingers in such a way (cat's cradle, mayhap?) so that Potter's digits (trembling now, slightly), with the damned interfering wand still caught tightly between them, were firmly grasped and even more decisively retained. "To ask you..."

Brought his other hand up far more quickly, a second-line strike force slung in the mix for reinforcement's sake (two hands were better than one, what?), and wrapped that in a neat, business-like fashion 'round Potter's wrist, slip-sliding into place 'round the knob of bone that stuck out and the indent of flesh beneath it till he could safely feel Potter was pinioned. Wasn't going anywhere—not a step—without Draco attached.

"Ask me?"

Potter (of the warm skin and now rapidly increasing breathing) did nothing but blink at Draco; didn't budge an inch to bolt or shake his assailant off summarily, and Draco thought that maybe Potter wasn't so unaffected as perhaps he might like to make out. Certainly, there was a hint of urgency in the air and it wasn't only his own, despite that steady gaze he could feel boring into his perspiring forehead. That steady gaze had been his downfall, once; it had been counted later as his salvation.

"This, " he gritted, and it was by far the hardest thing he'd ever gone after, Transfiguring a 'maybe' into a 'yes!' A Potter 'maybe', which was probably just a 'No!', in the bitter end, likely. But he had to try, damn it. And he'd be trying again, no doubt, if this effort didn't pan out. "Potter—Harry." Draco swallowed, and stared bleakly at the hand for added courage. It had accomplished many things, Potter's oddly adult paw—as had his own two nimble, terrible collections of fingers and narrow palms, skilled now in the refit and repair, at least, of magical furniture, and hopeful (had that been mended as well, his hope, back in the Room, with Potter?) of being put to use in the repair of items far more intangible than a mere two-way cabinet.

"If you would maybe—just maybe—consider it now," he eked out slowly, each syllable a separate torture device, and remained staring at the entangled mass of digits and wood, not daring to glance up and meet what he knew was likely utter confusion. "That it's over. The war."

"Ah," Potter murmured, full halt. Draco swallowed.

For if he met Potter's eyes directly, he'd lose his ramped-up store of courage: he'd probably yank his wand back abruptly, scowl blackly as ever befitted a Malfoy heir, force his fingers away from Potter's clingy ones, as little as he wished to do so, because he'd be horribly afraid Potter would tug his hand away first...before he did. It would be that very worst of events all over again: another ruined 'maybe'.

"The friends thing," he added, to clarify, so Potter—no, Harry; the whole world called him 'Harry'; why couldn't Draco? Would understand. As some things had to be spelled out; they couldn't be implied or inferred or left hanging by a thread. "Being mates. To begin with, at least. For a start."

Not this time. Draco was set on it. There were only so many 'maybes' and 'what ifs?' in his life. He'd wasted so very many of them, but perhaps it had been better that way. Perhaps he had been forced to waste them; bollix them up left and right, all by that damnable prophecy Potter had been born with. But there was no earthly reason to fuck with them now; not when he was in need of every single one.

Chance was a fine thing, and in some cases the most valuable thing of all. He was holding a brilliant one, right here in his hand, and—

"I want to be your mate, Po-_Harry_. Now, starting now," he bit out, enunciating this need of his so there'd be no mistake at all. "I want to be counted your friend. Same as Weasley. Same as that Mu-_Granger_."

"What?" Potter reared a step or so back from Draco in a startled sort of way, as if this were the last thing he'd ever expected Draco to announce. His hand fluttered like a caught bird within Draco's confining clasp, the fingers moving restlessly. Draco's old wand rolling like quicksilver below them, magic slicking off the hawthorn in sparks and tiny throbs of power. It was warm already, his old wand, and Draco could feel a greater heat building in the core, but it didn't eclipse the quickening pulse of blood under Harry's skin or the nascent energy which surged through all those small fiddly bones and strung-taut muscles which made up his beautiful hand. Draco loved that hand (both hands) with all his heart, now. It was the key to all he desired, that hand. Those small scars and the patches of hardened skin and the bitten nails and..."I thought—I thought—" Harry's voice was bewildered; as if this truly were the last possible scenario he could ever imagine. "I don't get it, Malfoy."

Draco scowled. He didn't think so. He would've thought it would be obvious and logical, even unavoidable, but then he'd had the advantage of a solid month with nothing to do but to mull over that; Harry, on the other end, had been assaulted by a celebrating public and likely had had no time to think over much of anything, not that he ever seemed to think all that much in the first place. That was one area where they'd always been diametrically opposed and Draco couldn't see it changing, mates or not. Harry was big on instinct and gut feeling, which was foreign to Draco—except on the pitch. He was a cogitator, and the first one to admit to it-and he'd had the dubious advantage of even more months logged before this last one, trapped in check by his aunt and monitored far too closely. It had allowed this whole concept to come to a slow simmer in his head, true, and to emerge, a new-old construct, and then remain, taking up by far the largest part of his braincase.

And his senses, which had likely been imprinted, he believed. With Harry, over the course of days and months and years. He'd likely not ever recover; he was spoilt for anyone else.

"Wrongly, I think," he shot back and had himself gathered quite well in hand, even in the space of that short respite, and could indeed raise his eyes to meet Potter's squarely. Essay that hopefully charming grin of his Mum said she'd missed so much, these last few horrible years. Maybe Potter— "But understandably; I suppose I'll give you that much, prat—"

"Very," Harry stuck in sideways, like a knife edge, his tone dry and acrid, and Draco rolled his eyeballs, because Harry had scored a palpable hit. "Much so."

"Right," Draco gulped through his hastily donned grin, taken aback by the dark dart of sarcasm when he was expecting a bright sword of clean anger, but masterfully undaunted yet, despite upset. He still had firm grasp on that hand, didn't he? And wasn't letting go, either. Not a chance. "But, at least recently, if not those first few years, I've wanted...that. I did hate you then, Harry; it's true and make no mistake. But I—now, I—"

If he continued to smile, however tenuously, possibly Potter might smile in return?

"Don't. I certainly don't hate you now." He tried another, wider version of his smile—yes, likely weak, and yes, rueful, naturally—in the face of Harry's disingenuous puzzlement, his visible curiosity—his blatant disbelief . "Far from it."

If Draco didn't let go, just yet. If he continued to stretch his lips, and didn't shout, and didn't—

"The plain truth is," he swallowed and forged forward, because Potter—of all people, Potter!—knew him as the boy who didn't ever back down, who didn't stop for anyone or anything…who never gave up, or gave in, same as Potter himself. Potter—Harry, as it was when he thought of him; even if he'd not earned that right yet, he'd simply take it-Harry, at least, didn't consider him a coward, no matter what the git's closest mates had to say about it. Harry knew better—Harry knew him. He knew it had taken courage beyond Draco's years to fix up that fucking evil Cabinet; that it had taken bollocks of stone to lower his wand. That it had required nearly all he had stored deep within his heart to deny—and deny—and deny.

"The thing is," he repeated, and my, but Potter's eyes were so very green, and he was so completely done with denial, because this golden moment was yet another 'maybe' and fuck if he didn't need it, "my point is, Harry, it's better that you didn't like me back then—never liked me; hated me, even. That we didn't get on, from the very start—and it was better then that you weren't sorted into Slytherin, too, though I still say we're the best of all Houses—Gryffindors always barge in without any finesse—but that's past, and I—I'm."

"Git!" Potter laughed, still twitchy, but the light in his eyes, slowly dawning, was a significantly warmer green. The mist of spring's first leafing, when it fogged winter's grey and barren branches. "As if I'd ever want to be in Slytherin!"

"I'm saying this, because," Draco kept on doggedly, because he was a Malfoy, and Malfoy's kept their promises, even if only to themselves, "if you had; if you'd decided back then to surround yourself with all of us, and there were a lot in Slytherin that hated you, Harry—make no mistake about that, either—that insane bastard would've had at you all the sooner and—and Harry, that wouldn't have been a good thing, no matter how you slice the bloody flobberworm. Even _I_ know that."

"Now," Potter nodded, as if supremely satisfied to imply that small 'I told you so, git', and Draco, reacting without volition, tightened his hands brutally where they were spread hot and a bit damp 'round Potter's captured one, leaving white pressure imprints on that tanned skin. "You do know now…Draco. You'd better."

Draco nodded in reply; he wasn't afraid to admit this. Not to Potter. Not happy, not pleased in the least, no, admitting he'd been in error—but not afraid, either. It was allowable to make a mistake; one didn't have to pay for fucking every single little act in blood. Harry had proved that, simply by turning his broom around.

"But," Draco stuck to his point, belting up those niggly urges that had ruined other 'maybes', "that was then, and this…this is now, Harry. And I'm asking you again. Nicely."

"And…if I still say no?" Potter, who couldn't be anything but quite clear on what Draco wanted of him—other than his wand, naturally (which was glowing oddly within the Gordian knot of their combined fingertips), was abruptly all over righteous fire and flared nostrils, his eyes direct and piercing behind the battered black rims that never seemed to change from year to year; his shoulders shifting to a distinctly belligerent angle. "If I tell you I don't want that? What then, Draco Malfoy?"

Draco shrugged. 'Maybes' and 'what ifs' weren't so easy to accomplish; no one had ever promised him they would be and he certainly wasn't the naïve child he'd once been. He knew he'd have to work for this, and that was alright by him. It would be all the sweeter, when he tasted victory at last.

"So? I won't stop, Harry," Draco informed him, and perversely loosened his hands just a degree, before squeezing Harry's throbbing fingers meaningfully. "Not naffing off, either. Won't slack—won't back down." Absolutely not harshly enough to pinch or torment, but enough so Harry would realize he meant business. This would not end here. Harry might very well disengage himself and DisApparate, off to whatever place he was holing up these days, but this time Draco would follow. Simply by staying attached, like some human barnacle. "I won't stop asking you, not this time. I won't take 'no' for an answer, Harry. Not a chance."

There was a great deal to be said for the simple act of possession. It was nine-tenths of the law, right? And if he wasn't to be handed out any more freebie 'maybes' by that nasty old bitch Fata Morgana barmy Professor Trelawney was always yammering on about (must always treat every chance as the last one, right?), then he'd have to ruddy well create them, yes? His chances. Out of the raw materials available to hand-and he was good, very good, with his hands, Draco knew. And right this moment he'd both Harry's hand and his attention.

Draco grinned wryly, oddly pleased with his own silly fancy, and spent a half-second tangentially attempting to sort out a clever way of imparting the whole convoluted thought to Harry, as it might have Harry chuckling, but—

Harry smiled at him nonetheless, even without Draco needing to scramble to be amusing or clever, and he, too, had a very lovely boyish grin. It lit up his entire face; Merlin, it actually took those well-known features of his right over, transforming them, and then literally spilt down and over and up and across, rising, and then straight out, like a rolling spray of Felix, drenching Draco. Fuck, but Draco was pleased with that! First time, he was sure, he was standing square in its direct path—the arc of Harry's smile—in all these many years. First time.

He practically chortled at Harry Potter in not very well stifled glee—Harry, Draco's own personal wand bearer, and the git he'd be calling 'mate' in very short order, being as he was really very determined to grab at his 'maybes'. Draco lifted his chin another notch, and held on tight.

"Just so you know," he smirked, sweetly. "Fair warning, mate."

"You Slytherins," Harry observed just as wryly, reluctantly grinning, and turned his trapped palm upwards, giving Draco access to those life and heart lines criss-crossing his palm, finally. Draco didn't hesitate. He traced them obsessively with a careful thumb, shoving the wand barrel aside impatiently with his eager fingertips and concentrating solely on the perspiration-sticky creases. There was, he noticed instantly, a little blip in each of them; barely a rift, but still visible to the naked eye, and then they continued running on, firm and deeply carved down the length of that workaday hand—thankfully. Draco traced, and it tickled, and Harry giggled because of it, his grin deepening. "You're always on about taking advantage, aren't you?" His voice was full of sly laughter—forgiving laughter. "Damned snakes."

Draco listened carefully; watched intently, glancing up and examining every part of Harry's face.

But there was no vitriol in Harry's remark; fuck, no—it was actually more than a mere hint of admiration Draco was hearing…at last. As if Harry acknowledge there was a place for Draco and his ilk, and that it wouldn't—Hogwarts wouldn't; _life _wouldn't—be at all the same without clever people. Beyond pleased with that, Draco smiled ever so fondly at Harry's hand, held like delicate raku-ware between his own, and didn't give a ghost of a flying fuck when his precious wand finally slipped through the gaps between interlaced knuckles and fell to the floor with a clatter. It was _true_, yeah?

Slytherins were always looking out for themselves. Their own best interests, which naturally came first. 'Course, those 'best interests' also included people—Slytherins being just as capable of loving-kindness as everyone else. Slytherins having friends and family—and pashs and obsessions—and feeling love just as much as any bloody Huffle or Gryff. And, speaking for himself, it was Harry. Had always been Harry, and would always be.

"Er, so," he began, because part of being Slytherin was being cunning, and another part was holding on to what he considered his property by whatever means necessary, and keeping it safe from harm. It was best, Slytherins knew, to allow whatever—whomever—was precious to them to draw that same logical thoughtful conclusion—and acknowledge that they were in dire need of being held…and in need of being safe; that, ultimately, a Slytherin connection could only be of benefit to them. "Alright, then…Harry? Just so you know what's up—no mistake, no misunderstandings."

"What's up?" Harry quirked his brows but he seemed in no hurry to remove himself from Draco's hand. "What d'you mean, Draco?"

"Well," Draco shrugged carelessly, "I don't want you left wrestling with any uncertainties, Harry, or turning 'round after and bleating silly excuses at me simply because you didn't realise. Or claiming to, later. That's not on. Besides, wouldn't be fair to your Gryffindor brain, would it? Too clever by half."

"Oh, I don't know," Harry chuckled, "Draco. My Gryffindor brain, as you call it, is pretty fair at puzzling out the intrigues of you snake types. I imagine I could sort them, given time."

"Brilliant," Draco nodded, well aware his shaky 'maybe' had just been built into a solid 'yes', all with just a smidgeon of stolid effort and a touch of verbal sleight-of-hand. In fact, 'hand's on' was a damned fine approach, apparently, when it came to Harry Potter. He'd be keeping that tactic in the forefront of his mind, for future use. "Super. Then, since you're here…come on inside, why don't you? It's rather rude to jitter about on someone's doorstep when you're stopping to return a borrowed item. That's not how you treat your...friends, Harry. You should stay with me a while; it's only polite to keep me company. We've a lot of catching up to accomplish, don't we?"

"Don't mind if I do," Harry dipped his chin and favoured Draco with a sly, sideways look. One that sparkled with interest—prurient interest, which was exactly the sort of look Draco was aiming for. "That is, if you'd budge your skinny arse over and shift out of the sodding middle of the sodding doorway, git. You're blocking it, you know. Can't get through, can I? Shove over, will you? Let me by."

And then Harry—ever the uncouth rudesby, the tosser—nudged familiarly at Draco, bumping shoulders hard, even with their hands still tangled. Sleeves and elbows and knees, too. _And_ Draco's old hawthorn wand skittering about on the doormat, presenting a hazard.

"Hmph!"

Draco's eyes abruptly narrowed into slits, he was that instantly incensed by Harry's abrupt grab for power. This was pure impertinence on Harry's part—barging ahead like this—and too, he'd no intention of allowing the prat to lord it over him just because he'd the misfortunate to go all Hufflepuddle gooey-brained over the git's marvellous hands—or hair, or eyes or arse, either. Oh, no—that wasn't on! No use starting off on the wrong foot!

Speaking of feet, Draco spun on one heel, fast and sure, deft and nimble, gripping Harry's wrist all the while and never releasing it (possession, remember? And wasn't it just as thin as his own, that wrist, and likely from that year's deprivation he'd heard tell of, spent in hiding, and hunting, and he couldn't dwell on that part of Harry's life, nor his own—this was Now and not Then) and tugged at the uppity prat like the very Devil, yanking him right off his pins.

Harry came along after him, stumbling arse-over-teakettle before he could dig his stubborn little heels into the stubble of the mat, and Draco managed to successfully capture Harry's other hand in the whole fumbling process, as well, simply by dint of picking it out of the air, mid-flail. He'd nearly righted them—despite Harry's help—when an unexpected trip-and-slide over the slippery wand beneath their feet sent them both reeling headlong against the nearest wall, Draco's weight plastering his brand new best mate firmly into the flocked white-on-white papered border his mother favoured.

"Ooof!" Harry panted, winded and blinking rapidly. He stared up at Draco, eyes wide behind his spec lenses. Then he narrowed them accusingly and scowled. "Bastard! Watch where you're going!"

"Hmph!" Draco huffed in reply, not at all displeased by where they'd fetched up—or how it had happened. Here was another chance, right? "How very blooming rude, Harry—barging into my home with the invite barely offered! Have you never heard of proper manners? Now you have to pay up—"

He laid his lips on Harry's for the merest of moments, which served to shut Harry's flapping trap right smart—

"Obnoxious, contrary Gryffindor—" he murmured, grey eyes alight with fondness. "Always taking advantage, aren't you?"

"Prat!"

And returned to lay his grinning mouth against Harry's tip-tiled one, pressing harder. "You owe me, Harry."

"Ooh! I do?" Harry gasped a bit, but then he kissed Draco in return, catching on. Draco smiled. And smiled, ever so pleased.

"Ummm. I do, yes," Harry moaned willingly, after some little while. "Draco?"

"My Harry—" Draco wasn't letting Harry stop, not for instant. "My very own Harry."

Followed up on that claim by snogging his guest for all he was bloody worth, even as Harry opened his pink lips to protest the invasion of tongue—or maybe only gasp his pleasure again, who knew—who cared? Draco made sure to employ all the serpent-like cunning he so proudly possessed, and a great and fine determination besides, honed by fire and by blood, by taunts, insults and random hexes. He kissed Harry with all his heart displayed proudly—on his lips, on his hands, on his sleeve—never letting up, for possession was all, and here was his long awaited chance.

"Stay here. Stay."

And, all the while, his own two quite capable hands were actively curling convulsively 'round Harry's sagging robe lapels where they gaped open, mysteriously unbuttoned, and his hot, damp nape, miraculously unguarded, and then tangling inextricably themselves deep into that inviting mop of hair and lodging strong and sure under Harry's steamy armpit, latching on like belaying hooks. Never leaving go.

"Don't go."

Because 'maybes' and 'what ifs' were definitely excellent raw material, yes, and wonderful to begin with, but Draco had more than proven he was damned good with his hands. He'd a gift, actually, for coaxing recalcitrant magical items into cooperating, didn't he? And difficult, contrary people, too—he could persuade them if he but tried.

This—_this_, he could make something of, finally.

For real.

**Finite**


End file.
